


Venezia (Sign me up)

by ftwnhgn



Series: Pittsburgh Verse [2]
Category: Frühlings Erwachen | Spring Awakening - Frank Wedekind, Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Making Out, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Sequel, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 11:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10512654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ftwnhgn/pseuds/ftwnhgn
Summary: “Have you messaged Moritz that we made it here safely and without a hitch and without me murdering you on the plane because I’m truly an evil person that doesn’t even like you?” Hanschen asks and squeezes back in the same moment, tagging Melchior along down the bridge right to the next. He’s stopping to take in the peach-coloured façade of a small house right at the bay of the canal, ignoring how he’s in the way of what seems to be an American family that’s also on vacation.Melchior is looking on his phone and tapping rapidly, his cheeks reddening under the knowing glance Hanschen is now giving him. “Yeah,” he answers, a bit strained. “Of course.”Melchior and Hanschen are on vacation. Decisions are being made and Melchior is not freaking out over them. Or at least he tries not to.





	1. and he was almost impressed.

**Author's Note:**

> Did I just write a sequel to Pittsburgh although no one asked for it? Yes, yes I did. So, here we are. Just let these idiots have a good time.
> 
> I had this idea in the middle of the night and it's all very happy and very sunny and just me trying to get all these spring vibes somewhere. (Seriously, the weather is amazing and I'd love to enjoy it more if the earth wasn't dying, lmao.)
> 
> It's the freaking middle of the night again, so any error that occurs is something I am deeply sorry for, and you know the drill how I'm not a native speaker and yada yada yada. I had The Comeback Kid from John Mulaney on in the background the whole time while writing this and also never went to Italy, but who cares at this point. I hope that I could bullshit my way enough through this.
> 
> Title: Run Away With Me - Kerrigan and Lowdermild (especially Michael Arden's rendition)  
> Chapter Title: John Mulaney quote, completely out of context.

“You’re done eating, are you?” Melchior asks.

The answer is, first, the lowering of an Italian newspaper and, second, the lowering of sunglasses. Light-blue eyes watch amused as one eyebrow arches upwards and, without saying another word, Hanschen moves his salad over the table.

Melchior digs into the green leaves with a small smile on his face, unable to keep it away from his features for too long. He’s just so goddamn happy, for what feels like the first time in his life. It is not the first time in his life, and will surely not be the last, but if it would be, he wouldn’t complain. It’s a perfect day, the sun shining down on them, illuminating Hanschen’s perfect skin and blonde hair in a golden tone that reminds Melchior of the Greek gods he lectures about, and the water seems to be as light-blue as Hanschen’s eyes, or at least it comes close, nearly evoking the same sense of calmness and delight in Melchior.

But only nearly.

Venice might be a beauty, but when Melchior looks up from his finished salad and sees his boyfriend – _boyfriend_ , of _three_ years no less, how did they even manage that after that disastrous start? – who is apparently fluent in Italian and reads the stock section of the paper, he’s pretty sure that nothing can compare to the beauty of Hans Rilow. Not even Italy.

“You’re staring and it’s starting to become more creepy than cute,” Hanschen reminds him without looking away from his page, the amused flicker in his eyes now audible in the glee of his voice and visible in the curve of his grin.

“Shut up,” Melchior answers. “You like it anyway.”

Hanschen folds the paper and puts it onto their small table, carefully balanced between their dishes and his glass of red wine and Melchior’s beer. One hand then moves upwards to signal a waiter that they want to pay and while Melchior already digs out his wallet Hanschen rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“I do,” he responses.

They pay and tip generously and then get up and going. The burning midday sun from before has cooled down a bit and the fresh breeze of the sea makes the afternoon much more bearable than the first half of the day. Melchior’s glasses don’t feel like they’re glued to his face anymore and the sleeves of Hanschen’s blue shirt are rolled up to his elbows. They’re holding hands while they’re walking down the street and no one bats an eye and no one knows them and no one seems to think Melchior isn’t good enough for someone as obviously magnificent as Hanschen.

It feels good and Melchior is squeezing Hanschen’s hand as they’re stopping on a bridge, arms touching, while Melchior is taking a picture with the iPhone in his free hand.

“Have you messaged Moritz that we made it here safely and without a hitch and without me murdering you on the plane because I’m truly an evil person that doesn’t even like you?” Hanschen asks and squeezes back in the same moment, tagging Melchior along down the bridge right to the next. He’s stopping to take in the peach-coloured façade of a small house right at the bay of the canal, ignoring how he’s in the way of what seems to be an American family that’s also on vacation.

Melchior is looking on his phone and tapping rapidly, his cheeks reddening under the knowing glance Hanschen is now giving _him_. “Yeah,” he answers, a bit strained. “Of course.”

The amused tone is back in Hanschen’s voice. “Thought so.”

 

*

 

They leave the third church of the day and Hanschen is carefully rolling his sleeves back up while Melchior is simultaneously shrugging out of his jean jacket. It’s much warmer outside than inside the old buildings and although they just went through the same motions two times in a row in the last two hours. But it’s them after all, and they seem to never learn, no matter how trivial the matter – they’re stubbornness always gets the best of them. (Or Melchior’s brain is just exaggerating, but who knows in the heat anymore, not him certainly.)

Surprisingly Hanschen wasn’t opposed to visiting a few of the Venedian churches when Melchior carefully pitched the idea to him over the phone two weeks ago. He was probably in between two meetings and only lending Melchior half an ear, but he didn’t protest when Melchior stirred them towards the first one. And instead of complaining once, he just wondered around and read guides about the architecture all the while Melchior looked up the religious history of the places and what stories are connected to them and, yeah, the both of them seemed to enjoy their afternoon.

Now Hanschen is back to putting his sunglasses over his eyes with his one hand and handing Melchior a cigarette with the other one – the saint of a boyfriend he is – and Melchior lights it and takes a drag as they walk down to the water.

“How you can smoke in this heat is beyond me,” Hanschen says. “It looks like death.”

Melchior snorts, looking down at his cigarette and then over to Hanschen whose grey shorts, white top and blue shirt combination looks better the more time they spend here and if they weren’t surrounded by other tourists, Melchior would lean over and kiss him until they both had no air in their lungs and Hanschen wouldn’t have that shirt on anymore, but unfortunately, they are surrounded by about dozens of more people, who won’t tolerate it. Plus, Melchior’s not a fan of hardcore PDA, no matter what their friends say or think about him.

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Melchior shrugs and blows smoke into the sky above him. “Drinking coffee is worse.”

A hand is on the small of his back and Hanschen is behind him, leaning against his back and peaking over his shoulder. “That totally explains why you’re still drinking it every morning,” he observes and drops a kiss to the side of Melchior’s head before moving back to walk next to him, a grin staying on his face while he just watches the blush creeping up the back of Melchior’s neck.

Melchior, slightly surprised by the spontaneous display of affection, readjusts his glasses, and furrows his brows. “Just because I’m not a fan of iced coffee.”

Hanschen reaches out and takes Melchior’s hand in his. “Don’t understand that either,” he tells Melchior. “Iced coffee is God’s gift to humanity.”

“I thought my mouth was God’s gift to humanity,” Melchior replies, his time to be amused.

Hanschen gives him a _telling_ look over the rim of his glasses. “That too, but only under special circumstances.”

Melchior laughs and stares at the vast expanse of blue water and bluer sky opening up in front of them in the orange evening sun. It’s breathtaking and for a short second Melchior forgets what they were talking about. He wants to open his mouth, at least trying to say something, but Hanschen beats him to the punch.

“Let me guess, you had the greatest innuendo right on your tongue, but forgot it when you looked ahead,” he announces and Melchior can’t help but nod because, _damn_ , Hanschen knows him too well.

“It’s alright,” Hanschen says and smiles. “Just show me that mouth later.”

He kisses Melchior like he _means_ it.

Melchior can’t really complain and, suddenly, the water in front of him doesn’t seem as interesting as the man up close to him.

 

*

 

Hanschen is warm where Melchior is able to touch his skin. His hands are warm, his arms are warm, his neck is warm and the skin at his shoulders and under the shirt seems to be plain hot. His lips are also hot, even hotter than his skin, and whenever he captures Melchior’s mouth for another kiss Melchior’s brain seems to lose a bit of its function, but that’s a natural thing.

“This was a good idea,” Hanschen breathes out as they’re breaking apart again to catch their breathes and his hands are in the back-pockets of Melchior’s black jeans, keeping him perfectly placed against him.

Melchior’s glasses press against Hanschen’s cheek as he places a kiss on the sharp jaw and then on Hanschen’s mouth as well and it’s all hot, hot, hot, like summer heat in the midst of Germany, like a crackling fire on an open beach, like they’re back under their sheets on the first day Hanschen came home from Pittsburgh. Like every time he comes back home from Pittsburgh.

Like Pittsburgh is far away.

And it is. It is.

Hanschen’s phone is off and in his suitcase in their hotel suite and he won’t be getting it out until their plane landed back in Germany in a week. He didn’t bring any work with him and he never mentioned it once since they came here and it makes Melchior so goddamn happy that a grin cracks his lips open, so their teeth click against each other and Hanschen seems to read this as a sign to open up Melchior’s mouth even more with his tongue, and the air around them just seems to get _hotter_. And how is that even possible?

How is anything even possible whenever he’s with Hanschen? That Melchior hasn’t died of a heat stroke whenever he’s in bed next to him is a _fucking_ _miracle_ – truly makes him believe in God again.

Might try the church thing again. Moritz and Ernst would be delighted to see them at service again, Melchior thinks, but then Hanschen’s hand moves to his side and fingertips are digging into his skin there and, well, maybe postpone the Sunday service for a while because then Melchior doesn’t think _at all_.

Then the kiss ends.

Melchior opens his eyes again.

“Stop turning your brain inside out when we’re making out,” Hanschen whispers into his ear and leans his head against the house wall behind him, his face half in the shadow of the alley they’re in and the top-half bathed in the last sunlight of the day, a diagonal line splitting his face right above his nose into light and darkness and it makes Melchior blink once to refocus on his boyfriend’s eyes.

“I don’t-“ Melchior wants to protest, but Hanschen shushes him with a roll of his eyes and a raised hand.

“You do,” he announces, his left hand resting right under Melchior’s jaw now, fingers splayed over the skin there protectively and lovingly – a weird combination that seems to work for Hanschen although they’re alone. “But when I promised to leave work at home, then you will leave that bad mind-frame at home as well.”

Melchior scrunches his nose up in confusion. “Did you just say ‘bad mind-frame?”

Hanschen’s eyes trail past Melchior’s face and into the alley and then back, pointedly not ending in another eye-roll. “Yes, I did, idiot,” he answers.

“Did you pick that up at one of your team meetings or when you were- Ouch!” Melchior hisses as Hanschen punches his shoulder hard.

“Not funny, Melchior,” he warns him.

Melchior grins at Hanschen’s stern expression and then his grin turns into full-on laughter. “Just a tiny bit, Hans,” he tells his boyfriend.

Another hit lands on the same spot as before and it hurts, fuck, but it’s worth it when he can see the corners of Hanschen’s mouth twitch.

“Come on, let’s find a nice place to eat dinner at, so you can smoke more cigarettes and tell me all about Moritz and his new boyfriend while I kill two glasses of chilled wine,” Hanschen proposes.

Melchior leans against his shoulder as his laughter dies out and he looks up at Hanschen through his glasses. “You’re always weirdly specific.”

Hanschen’s finger are on his jaw again and rub his skin gently. “And you’re weird in general,” he answers and reels Melchior in for another hot kiss.

“Now, get going, darling.”


	2. and also with you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> one of them always has commitment issues, i don't know why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: a John Mulaney quote and catholic saying, completely out of context, again.

The next day, Melchior wakes up with his face mashed into Hanschen’s back and his arms around his boyfriend’s bare torso. Whenever they wake up like this, Melchior gets a weird flashback to the first night they hooked up, over three years ago, when this all started and he had the hangover and freak-out of the century at the same time and Hanschen stole his glasses and Melchior then got up and cooked breakfast for the two of them. The sheets of the bed were also white back then and Hanschen also smelled like his fresh cologne and his hair products, but today his skin still tastes like ocean air when Melchior kisses it and the alcohol of the day before disappeared from him when he brushed his teeth and washed his face.

So, it’s only a distant memory of anxiety and panic and that hot feeling Melchior only associates with Hanschen now when Hanschen is waking up next to him, rolling over and blinking his eyes open against the bit of morning light that streams into their hotel room.

He’s weirdly silent while he’s studying Melchior’s face and his blue eyes and marble skin look as beautiful as ever against the sheets and Melchior will never not think this when he sees him like this, so open and vulnerable and private. It’s gorgeous, and in Melchior’s opinion it’s the most gorgeous sight on the planet.

“Melchior?” He says, his voice still low from sleep, or the night before, or both. But who knows?  
  
“Hmmm?” Melchior responses and motions Hanschen to continue, his boyfriend apparently having something to say before his morning run and shower. Must be the vacation.

Hanschen is reaching over the mattress and interweaves his fingers with Melchior’s and Melchior watches the muscles in his back move as he does so.

“Let us move in together,” Hanschen proclaims.

Wait, what?  
  
Melchior freezes, as is his natural instinct, and suddenly the peaceful and idyllic atmosphere of the morning seems as foreign as the soil on the ground of the ocean surrounding the city they’re in. He draws his head back, more than confused, and somehow this feels like Pittsburgh all over again, like the plane is crashing without anyone warning him.

“Wait, what?” he stammers. ( _Smooth, Gabor, smooth_.)

Hanschen rests his head under his arm and a soft smile is on his face as he watches Melchior. Apparently seeing your boyfriend breathing himself away from an incoming panic attack is cute, or maybe after three years Hanschen just turns out to be the axe-killer Moritz warned Melchior a billion times about.

Fingers squeeze his own ones and Melchior scrambles for his glasses on the night-stand.

“I just thought,” Hanschen starts in a sigh. “Well, we’re not getting any younger and I don’t want to get on a plane to see you.” He pauses. “I want to come home to you, you know? Like every other adult person in a cool relationship. I want to wake up next to you every morning. And annoy you with my work stories at the dinner table and not over the phone.”

Melchior processes what Hanschen just told him and his heart beats faster the more he realizes. This is serious. Hanschen is serious about them. Well, why wouldn’t he? He spent a lot of money to spend time with Melchior in a country they’ve never been to, so. Melchior should not be as surprised as he is right now.

“You’re serious?” Melchior asks.

Hanschen doesn’t miss a beat when he answers, “There’s a small townhouse in Munich my uncle used to rent out, but now he’s too old to take care of it, so he wants to give it to one of his grandchildren. I already claimed it when I was about seven years old, so it’s kind of mine. I want you there." Pause.  "I want _us_ there.”

Melchior’s heart can’t stop beating so damn hard and he’s sure he’ll go into cardiac arrest in about twenty seconds if Hanschen keeps going like this. He feels like a full-body sweat is breaking out on him, but not the sexy kind, more of the fever kind he gets when he can’t handle situations, when he feels _too much_ at once.

“You thought about that a lot,” he states, his voice shaky as Hanschen’s thumb draws soothing lines onto the back of his hand.

Hanschen nods. “Yes, I did. And I didn’t want to ask you, if everything wasn’t ready and I wasn’t sure you were ready.”

Melchior head still swims like his brain got dunked into the swimming pool that used to be close to their school back in the town they grew up in. Why does Hanschen know he is ready for this? He can’t even feed himself and his plants accordingly so he and them survive, how can he let Hanschen into this? That’s like putting a marble vase into a discount market. Or something along those lines.

It’s insane.

“But what about Pittsburgh?” Melchior asks, feeling like he’s stuck in a dream.

Yeah, what about Pittsburgh? Hanschen loves Pittsburgh. He loves his work there and he loves his colleagues (except Max, for obvious reasons) and he loves going to New York and he loves this town and he loves his apartment there and he loves everything about Pittsburgh. He tells everyone about Pittsburgh all the time, _that’s_ how much he loves the place. It’s the manifestation of all his hard work on a real-life place that can be found on a map. Hanschen is crazy about this shit, has been for nearly four years.

So, what about Pittsburgh?

“I can quit there. They’re a great team and don’t need me anymore. Munich, though, the firm wants to start a new office there too and they offered a leading position to me there. And it’s much closer to my friends and our families and to _you_.” Hanschen’s hand wanders up Melchior’s naked arm and stills on his shoulder.

“Melchior, I want this. Don’t you understand? I’m done with running around. I want to settle down and I want you right there with me.”

Hanschen sounds so sincere and so full of love and Melchior remembers how he thought that this one emotion manifested itself in the most stubborn and impossible person he ever met and it’s been years and he still thinks this way about Hanschen and them.

It’s been more than three years and back then he doubted everything about the world, about fate and about love. But he learned to never doubt Hanschen. So, when Hanschen says that he’s ready, that they are ready for this, how could they not be?

There is no plane crashing when he grabs Hanschen’s hand again and holds on tightly.

“Okay, Hans,” he says and Hanschen lights up like the sun on the warmest summer day in Spain. “I’m ready.”

 

*

 

“Can we keep your couch?” Melchior asks as they’re looking for cheap tours through the canals.

Hanschen, whose sunglasses are firmly in place again and whose mood is better than any other day Melchior has known him, bites his lip. “I’m not sure. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love the thing as much as you do, but it’s kind of hard to get it over the pond without selling a limb.”

Melchior is now the one to come up behind Hanschen and drabs his whole upper-body against his back. “You’re as rich as Meryl Streep. Don’t come with the money excuse,” he drawls into Hanschen’s ear, who swats him away with his right hand.

“I am,” he agrees. “But I’m not spending my money unnecessarily when we can sell the damn thing or donate it to an orphanage or foster family and buy a perfectly new one _together_ , for _our_ house.”

Melchior’s stomach does the funny somersaults again when Hanschen says ‘ours’ and instead of moving away from his boyfriend like any normal human, he wraps his arms around one of Hanschen’s and presses his forehead against the blonde’s shoulder.

“You alright down there?” Hanschen asks, a worrying crease between his eye-brows. It makes him look a bit older, but not in an unattractive way, and Melchior doesn’t need to look up to know it’s there. They’ve been together for more than three years after all.

Melchior nods against his shoulder. “I am,” he assures him.

Hanschen rubs his back fondly and moves them forward to the next advertisement for gondola rides. Melchior confides in him picking something legit looking out without his help. He’s too comfortable right now, leaning against the athletic body of his boyfriend in a nice shady spot close to the fresh water in the middle of Venice. It all could be worse.

“Hey, is this my shirt?” Hanschen then says and stirs Melchior a hands-length away from him to look him up and down.

“That definitely is _my_ shirt,” he confirms for himself.

How Hanschen can make out that a basic grey T-shirt is his when it’s on Melchior’s body, is beyond Melchior’s usually intellectual mind to figure out, so he just shrugs and nuzzles against Hanschen’s shoulder again.

“Keep it,” Hanschen tells him, his nose brushing Melchior’s ear as he does so. “It suits you better than me.”

Melchior grins against the fabric of Hanschen’s blue shirt – a different one to yesterday's, in a darker, richer blue. It looks great on Hanschen, especially how it fits around his shoulder blades – and as he looks down notices that they hold hands, _again_.

It’s a bit disgusting, but also very sweet and he can’t stop smiling now, his smile matching the one that also can’t seem to leave Hanschen’s face whenever their eyes meet.

“You found a good offer?” Melchior asks him as he now eyes the ads too.

Hanschen shakes his head. “Not really. Maybe we should just go down to the water ourselves.”

 

*

 

This night, they’re fully able to take in the sunset and the beautiful view of the clear water. They haven’t found a good gondola right because Melchior himself is still incredibly opposed to capitalistic and unfair offers and because Hanschen is still caring too much about aesthetic and looks and doesn’t want to go onto a gondola that looks like “ _it was built in the first World War and then was never restored again. It’s just not right_.” Instead they bought some bread, a bottle of wine and some olives and sat down at the water.

 It’s nice like this too, really, and for all Melchior cares, they could sit in the dirt in an alley, but as long as Hanschen would be there with him, he’d be fine and content. Because that’s who he became in the past years.

“It’s really as beautiful as people said,” Melchior says absentmindedly as he takes in the view.

Hanschen hums in agreement while he chews on the bite of bread he took, his shoulder and torso and thigh touching Melchior's, and not wanting to move away for half an hour now. Instead his one arm is around Melchior’s waist and the wine bottle is nudged somehow between them without falling over – _what the fuck, gravity_ – and he’s oddly quiet again.

“It is,” he affirms. “I’m glad you’re crazy about classic literature like no one else and proposed Venice as a vacation spot.” He kisses Melchior’s temple to underline his sentence and Melchior gets hot all over at the touch of Hanschen’s lips on his skin. Fitting the summer heat of Italy once more.

“Thank you,” Melchior grins, a grin now appearing on his face as he hears the praise from Hanschen. “But don’t act like you’re not a classic kind of guy. I know you and you’ve read the same things I read.”

Hanschen snorts and shakes his head, Melchior can feel it against his temple. “That’s not true. I never read _The Communist Manifesto_.”

Melchior pokes his side as he hears this and Hanschen squirms away, his hand getting between them and stopping Melchior from doing it again, because Hans Johann Rilow is insanely ticklish, as one learns when one is in a relationship with him.

“But you read all of Shakespeare. And Tolstoy. _And_ Fitzgerald. _And_ Twain. _And_ Dickens.”

Hanschen rolls his eyes, the most Rilow-esque of his habits.

“ _And Austen_.”

Melchior can’t stop grinning when he sees the slight blush now spreading on Hanschen’s usually perfectly marble cheeks. It’s a delight and such a rare state for Hanschen to be in that Melchior just leans back in Hanschen’s arm and takes it all in. It’s amazing, _really_.

Melchior can’t wait to see this, to see _him_ , daily.

“That is not the point, darling, but thank you for reminding me,” he says, amused as ever by Melchior’s crazy memory.

“What I wanted to say is,” he starts again, now watching the vast display of calm water again, crushing against the concrete in a steady rhythm, like a heartbeat, or like taking deep breaths. It’s fascinatingly calming. “That if we keep this theme going, we visited the whole of South Europe by next year.”

He leans forward and kisses Melchior, who eagerly reciprocates when Hanschen’s arm is still on his back and his own is drawing him closer by the collar of his shirt. It’s as hot as the last time and Melchior greets the fire spreading out in him with a breathy sigh as they come up for air again, Hanschen’s blue eyes meeting his own warmer ones.

“And I can totally work with that,” he continues between more kisses. “As long as we come home together.”

Melchior kisses him once more, open-mouthed and warm and the waves are coming up a bit higher, soaking Hanschen’s bare feet and Melchior’s sneakers, and they drive apart in the middle of it all in surprise.

“I love you, Hans,” Melchior says – feels so sure of it, of all the love he feels for this man right next to him, whose feet and calves are now soaked in ocean water just like Melchior’s shoes and jeans – and how could he ever want to leave him behind in Pittsburgh when he can’t stand to be a minute apart and away from him?

Blonde hair shines golden and the cold water doesn’t match the colour of Hanschen’s eyes as he responses with “I love you too, my dear.” before they kiss again.

As the hand of his boyfriend eases his own away from the fabric of that dark-blue shirt to take a hold of it, Melchior knows nothing compares to Hans Johann Rilow. And probably nothing ever will.

He closes his eyes and smiles into the kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> validate my non-existent ego, maybe, so leave a comment if you want, or chat with me on tumblr (andreinbolkonsky) or twitter (xbigboysdontcry) where I cry about john mulaney and spring awakening at the same time in between binge-watching brooklyn nine-nine.
> 
> friendly reminder: you are loved, you are enough and you will achieve great things. you are right just the way you are, a living and breathing thing. keep going. i hope you have a great weekend.


End file.
